


dizzying counterparts

by blueaces



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Angst, I think but happy ending, M/M, Minor Character Death, past 2tae and tenil, soloist!taeil, violist!sicheng
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 23:44:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16753744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueaces/pseuds/blueaces
Summary: Maybe Taeil was lonely too.orTaeil is a musician looking for someone to write songs with.





	dizzying counterparts

**Author's Note:**

> this story has been bugging me since september and I'm very glad to be done with it. It's a very old prompt I thought of a few years ago that's been collecting dust on my computer,,,
> 
> also slight TW for self-harm, not a big portion of the fic but it's mentioned briefly

An ad. Looking for a composer of sorts to work with. First pasted around the city with intentions to bake beneath the sun, then flung out at concerts to be crumpled underfoot by raging legs. No such luck. He should have expected as much. Taeil turns to the internet, something he has come to dislike over the years. It runs thick in his blood, the distasteful dependence unlike any other. He must be rather desperate to be using his age-old computer, looking for sites to plaster his wants on.

He finds one. _Adlib_. Where musicians of any background can congregate to find another, who fits with them like a puzzle piece. Or that’s what the website guarantees. Taeil scoffs. There’s not such a thing and to even think so was childish wonder and wishful thinking.

Yet there he was. Finger hovering over the enter key, waiting for that bit of pressure to guide his finger down. Aversion held him back, but the barren peaks of desolate hours spent in solitude pushed him forward. The congratulatory pop-up did nothing to soothe his aching nerves, if only succeeding in aggravating him further.

And now he waits, horrendous hours spent in his small apartment piled one on top of the other. Lyrics of nonsense crawling over the numerous notebooks filling his space, crowding his eyes until they wept the black ink. The chords mocked him, silly little progressions that had no place on a rotting keyboard. Keys jingling around, major or minor, what should he choose? What would grate less upon anticipating ears, experienced enough to recognize his shoddy workmanship, but sympathetic enough to pay for his next meal. A Russian roulette, one Taeil could only afford for so long before he was spilt next to the awkward notes littering the cheap carpet.

He waits for that awful ding to come in on his phone, signaling an unwanted yet completely wanted notification. He waits in the quiet dinginess of his apartment, grey walls blank and lonely. He waits, and it begins to pick at his skin, red crescent shaped marks finding a home in his side.

Three months after the posting, a single chime from his back pocket, reverberating in the empty kitchen - save for his bowl of rice. The only email to be received in weeks. His fingers itch to pull out the phone and see what awaits him, but he’s patient for ten minutes more before they are struggling to unlock the device, eager and anxious.

 

From: _ww97_

_For the posting: “Spring Moon looking for the Fall Sun. Only accepting applicants with experience in music theory and production.”_

_I have a degree in both. And physically, I work alone._

Taeil can only stare at the shortness of the words, little black pixels forming into the response he had been looking for. He couldn’t have asked for anything better.

_To: ww97_

_I trust you know what you are doing. You’re in. What should I call you?_

 

The response is almost instantaneous, the sound of hastiness ringing in Taeil’s head.

 

_From: ww97_

_Higher._

_Spring Moon:_

_Why Higher?_

 

_Higher:_

_A reminder to grow to not fear growth._

_Why Spring Moon?_

_Spring Moon:_

_I like both. Spring and the moon._

It really was as simple as that. His surname being Moon helped the creativity he strongly lacked, whereas Higher’s name held a deeper meaning, something personal and attached to themselves. Taeil envied them and their openness to expression.

_Higher:_

_I follow your work. First heard “pushing daisies” on a dreary summer evening and it reminded me of the first days of winter. The unrelenting frost stripping the land of all pieces, but what’s left behind is breathtaking. And the spring to come will be even more so if you just wait._

 

A grimace paints Taeil’s face in colors of loathing and misery he rarely wanted to reminisce on. Even though “Pushing Daisies” hovered around the middle of the charts for weeks and allowed him to dine on more than just week-old rice, the burning hatred for the song was never-ending. It contained buried feelings, ones that should’ve stayed underground similar to the way fondness slept in a hardwood box surrounded by damp dirt and wriggling insects destined to molder. Every time he hears it playing softly in the background of a dainty café or store, he has to dash out before the images of ghastly skin and frail hands grasping his face invade his mind once again.

The added expectation of producing another song mirroring its image didn’t sit well with Taeil. He was okay with being a one-hit wonder, for people to never hear his name again, only to reside in the small credits underneath tracks sold to more deserving artists. Although, Higher didn’t need to know of dreaded songs and dead relationships.

 

_Spring Moon:_

_Your support is very kind._

_How about we get started; the sooner, the better. I’ll send you a couple snippets of the piece I’m currently working on. Your thoughts will be more than welcome, of course._

_[video attachment]_

 

Fuzzy videos containing a pair of hands, a ring adorning the middle finger on their left hand, and an old Yamaha keyboard, the black paint scratched off in various places. But the shabbiness didn’t mask the dark, bewitching tones sneaking through Sicheng’s headphones, slipping into his ears and curling around the grey and white matter occupying his skull. When the last note whispers its goodbye, Sicheng wishes it could have stayed longer. A craving for more like the lingering sweetness of bursting plums, the purple juices running down his fingers licked away.

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                _Higher:_

                                                                                                                _Sounds only like the harmony is present, so I think a brooding bassline could be used in the melody. A trio with a cello and viola seems best suited for the job. Maybe try a tritonal chord sequence at the end there if you want the piece to end with dissonance and not resolve._

_Your ring is beautiful, by the way._

 

_Spring Moon:_

_Great ideas. Get back to me with a bassline, and we’ll see if we both like it._

_I only wear the ring when I’m trying to create. A good luck charm, if you believe in that sort of thing._

_Higher:_

_Nothing’s wrong with having a source of comfort._

 

Taeil can’t bring himself to respond, not at the time being. Conversations with others who weren’t Youngho left him feeling incapable of holding up his end of the exchange, always full of unbearable tense pauses. There is the slightest bit of hope within, asking for Higher to produce his parts soon so Taeil can have something worth saying. But he turns his phone face down and returns to his bowl of rice, unappeasably bland and slightly dry.

 

-

 

Sitting in the space Sicheng made for himself, legs snuggly holding his cello in place, his fingers press down on the strings exactly where he wanted them. Upon listening to Spring Moon’s piece, the bassline appeared in his mind immediately, the notes flowing naturally out of the gleaming wood. Composed of slow whole and half notes, with the occasional dotted eighth note making its presence known among the dismal timbre. Nothing too extravagant, but the perfect accompaniment to the piano. 

The well-known unwelcome stab runs through his arm, and it’s time to stop the natural movements of his body. The viola part would have to wait for another time when the pain dissipated. Annoyance circuits anew, but nothing could be done for something that plagued him for years.

Using his other arm, Sicheng lays down his cello and listens back to the recording, closing his eyes to take in the deep-set tones. For once, not much needed to be touched up.

 

                                                                                                                                                                                _Higher:_

_Here. Only the cello part. We don’t have to add the viola if you like the combined cello and piano as is._

_[video attachment]_

 

_Spring Moon:_

_That was the fastest anyone has ever produced a bassline for me, I’m impressed. We can still try adding the viola and compare which version works better._

 

When Sicheng is finally able to construct a decent enough viola section where the tremor in his fingers is barely audible, it’s weeks after the last correspondence with Spring Moon. Sicheng can only hope he wasn’t forgotten and thrown to the side after one use. Irrationality at its finest, and it makes him laugh too loud as he only attaches the audio file, too craven to send any words of meaning.

Meer minutes and there is Spring Moon’s reply, enough time to listen and ponder over the technicality of the vibrating strings, and quick enough to show that the lull bothered them too.

A video follows soon after and just like the countless ones to come, it’s the same image, always of hands weathered from years of playing and a tarnished ring with an engraving too small to see through the lens of whatever Spring Moon was using to record. This time, it’s a finalized harmony with Sicheng’s viola and cello parts layered on top, in sync and fitting like they forever belonged together.

Yet the song is put aside to collect dust in Taeil’s hard drive. There’s an emotion that begs to crawl up Taeil’s throat every time Higher mentions it, but he swallows it, choking on the way back down. He wasn’t ready to spit it out anytime soon, hiding from whatever consequences to come.

Maybe Taeil thinks about Higher too much. He has developed the habit of sending Higher random clips of him and his keyboard, small segments of pieces stuck in his head at the moment. Higher seemed to enjoy them, responding enthusiastically or with clips of his own. Taeil thrives off of them, off of Higher. Taeil suspects the isolation from other human beings besides Youngho had him craving for any form of interaction. It should bother him, someone abruptly sliding into his life, even if he did purposely ask for it, but he can’t bring himself to care or tell Higher to fuck off elsewhere. Higher had stuck their roots into Taeil, winding around his ribs, and all Taeil could do was thank them.

Still, when Taeil is laying in bed listening to Higher’s playing on days where he’s not on the receiving end of new clips, he senses something akin to hesitation in the way Higher places their fingers on the board, like they don’t want Taeil to notice. If he listens close enough on one particular clip of a Schubert sonata, the wavering sneaks through when Higher shifts into a different position, a simple slide which should’ve been clean for someone so experienced, and Taeil can’t hold himself back from asking what he already suspects.

 

_Spring Moon:_

_I have a question and I hope you don’t mind me asking._

_Is your left arm okay? I can hear something in your playing sometimes, and I got a bit.. concerned._

 

 

Sicheng’s face burns and he can barely type his response.

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                _Higher:_

_It’s just an old thing, nothing to worry about_

 

Sicheng ends up rubbing at his arm until the pain outside masks the one inside, red and hot.

 

-

 

Taeil can’t get his mind off of Higher, the mystique surrounding them all too enticing to not take a leap of faith and foolery one year into their great synergy.

 

_Spring Moon:_

_I’d like to someday see you._

And Sicheng’s heart leaps in his own chest. Full of aspirations and heavy lead.

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                _Higher:_

_Maybe someday._

 

 

 

Taeil can smile now at the silent promise, but in the midst of pounded out keys and flurries of emails, somehow, he was able to ignore the looming clouds over his head. A forgotten mess, avoided, one still in need of cleaning.

He still needed to go visit Taeyong.

 

-

 

_Spring Moon:_

_Going out to see a symphony tonight at the lotte concert hall. Wish we could’ve gone together_

Sicheng views the live feed online from the comfort of his couch and lays out his bare hand on the cushion next to him, grasping around air and imagining the brush of a warm hand against his. He can see himself leaning his head on shoulders as they look out at the pit of musicians, and he falls asleep to the sounds of Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No.1 permeating the small living room, Spring Moon’s playing leaking in and overlapping with its notes, somehow mingling without discord.

 

-

 

_Spring Moon:_

_Do you have time to spare? I have a thing to show you. Well, I guess I already am._

_Higher:_

_Mandarin? Who’s teaching you ^^;_

_Spring Moon:_

_My dinosaur of a computer._

_Higher:_

_You’re teaching yourself? Impressive._

_Spring Moon:_

_The “x” sounds are kind of troublesome, but yeah. You inspired me too. Can’t say this about a lot of people, but you have quite a bit of influence over me…_

_Higher:_

_I could say the same about you._

 

-

 

It’s late and maybe Sicheng is a little drunk and throwing caution to the wind.

Even in his intoxicated state, he’s aware enough to only capture his mouth, moonlight barely outlining his lips in the camera.

“You said you were struggling with the “x” sound and it’s Higher at your service!” Giggling to himself, Sicheng wonders what Spring Moon would think. “Let’s start with a commonly used phrase between... some people. ‘ _Wo xi huan ni._ ’” Sicheng hangs on the ‘xi,’ drawing out the syllable with his tongue pressed up against his teeth, repeating it constantly like a mantra, one he’s only capable of reciting in the dark.

When Sicheng wakes up groggy and with a headache, the gravity of last night doesn’t sink in until he sees Spring Moon’s message.

 

_Spring Moon:_

_“How’s this?”_

He’s repeating the words back to him, his mouth equally shrouded in darkness. Sicheng downs two aspirins for the hangover and the headache that will present itself later caused by a lack of rationale.

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                _Higher:_

_It’s perfect._

 

He can’t ignore how they both sounded like they meant it.

 

-

 

_Two years_

 

The sickness took him too early, but around the time Taeil started falling out of love.

Something called ALS, but Taeil never wanted to remember the full name. Full names meant losing Taeyong was real, an actuality he had to contend with.

Where limbs forgot how to move Taeyong like they should, dance becoming difficult like it was in the beginning, fumbling appendages and off-beat steps. There were many times Taeil found Taeyong in a distorted form, legs crushed awkwardly underneath him and arms shaking with the weight of supporting all of him. Frustration ran through Taeyong, hot and fast, but he would never lash out. Too spirited and kind to give in to those temptations.

Taeil comes home to Taeyong holding a kitchen knife, the one he used to chop onions and carrots. Shaky slashes embedded in his skin, too shallow to cause any permanent damage, but deep enough to have rivulets of blood running down from his upper arm. There’s water boiling on the stove, abandoned and churning the remnants of a full pot. Raw meat still wrapped in its plastic, condensation sliding and pooling where it sits. But all Taeil can see is the red splattered on the bright white tile, contrasting colors.

“My arm wasn’t working.”

The knife clatters to the ground and so does Taeyong, a lifeless doll crumpled and neglected, the adrenaline no longer able to support him. Taeil stands there, conflicted, before going to the cabinet with the first-aid kit (Taeil can see Taeyong buying the kit for their apartment and placing it above the stove with a smile, eyes crinkling. “ _For when you have a little accident!”)_ and silently cleans the wounds, gauze soon littering the floor. He wraps his arm and picks Taeyong off the floor, half carrying him to the door.

The hospital is only a five-minute walk from their apartment complex and he makes his way to the elevator until Taeyong speaks for the second time.

“Please Taeil.” He’s mumbling, drool hanging on the curve of his mouth. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Taeyong comes home stitched and numb, but Taeil feels all the agony for him, aching while the meat is thrown back into the fridge to spoil, the scorched pot removed from the heat, and the floors scrubbed clean until his hands are raw. The blood lingers underneath his fingernails, in the crevices of his skin, stale, and Taeil can’t let go.

The following morning, Taeyong doesn’t take the pills that kept his heart beating. Nor the next day or the day after that. Taeil couldn’t even bother to force him to swallow them, not when they didn’t help some nights and Taeyong spent those in pain instead of dreaming about the life he should’ve had. All Taeil could do was fold around a trembling Taeyong as the spasms racked his body, silent tears rolling down his cheeks and blotting Taeil’s t-shirts with wet circles.

Too soon, Taeyong doesn’t stir the way he does in the morning, with tousled hair and pouty lips searching for a kiss. Still warm from the covers, Taeil holds him until he grows cold and stiff, unable to do anything more. Taeil calls Youngho, unfeeling and silent before the police who cover the body like nothing, a daily routine, as Taeil gazes at the limp fingers peeking out.

In a twisted way, Taeyong took his own life before he succumbed to the foretold future of the genetic predisposition. Winter never seemed colder.

And now there he stands above the stone inscribed with Taeyong’s name, among the others who had gone before him. Just another knot in the unforgiving tree who governs over all.

Wind jostles his hair, the only companion besides the ring sitting heavily in his pocket. _I can’t keep this anymore_. Words which echoed some of Taeyong’s last. In the original box it was gifted in, the ring rests with the imprints of Taeyong and Taeil.

Kneeling in the dirt, he disregards the new stains he’ll probably never take out of his jeans. Bare hands dig at the frozen ground above Taeyong, numb and filthy until the hole is deep enough to comfortably hold the box. It’s covered back up, barely a bump to suggest anything is even there.

Taeil still loved him, but it was a different kind of love. The age-old love where time became the factor of their relationship, moving from more than friends to friends. Courage failed to flow into him whenever Taeyong whispered those words to him, unable to do anything but repeat them back, lacking the romantic inflection. And Taeyong would smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and nestle his head into Taeil’s chest. Taeyong knew, yet neither ever brought it up, not when time is as limited as it was.

Taeil was a coward.

When he stands, Taeil only has eyes for the fresh dirt beneath his nails, the gloomy sunlight reflecting back blood. Breaths are coming fast, and he furiously rubs his hands on his shirt, grime smeared all over and Taeil can’t distinguish if the blood is his or Taeyong’s.

Fixated on desperately trying to rid himself of memories, Taeil failed to notice the hovering figure in the distance watching him until there are large hands covering his own. Startled, Taeil looks up, staring as the haziness fades out of his eyes, his focus point the widow’s peak on the man’s forehead.

“Youngho.”

There’s an upward twitch of his lips, relief. “You know, it’s the anniversary today. I’ve been here every year, waiting for you to show up. It’s been four years, Taeil.”

Fitting that Taeil came on the fourth anniversary. Four years dating and four years dead. Maybe a portion of his brain still hopelessly hung on to important details.

“I had to do something.”

“I know, I saw. Do you think this was the right choice for you?” Youngho is peering down at him, but Taeil can’t meet his gaze. Taeil steps backwards, letting their hands drop to their sides, dismissal the only thing coloring Youngho’s hands.

“It was the only choice.”

 

-

 

What was once a weekly occurrence became daily, a part of his routine to wake up to Higher’s good morning message or send off his own, talk the day away about miscellaneous things and end the night with what they called “the earworm of the day,” ( _“That was your earworm yesterday!” “Hence why it’s called an earworm.”)._ Higher seemed more inclined to sending videos with small slip ups, and Taeil’s heart swelled every time. He was allowed in enough to hear mistakes from someone who needed things to be perfect at all times, someone who became upset when they didn’t turn out the way they were supposed to. Taeil hoped his words of assurance acted as a pillar of support for Higher in moments of doubt.

He shoots off a good morning message, setting his phone down to pour himself a bowl of cereal. When the bowl contains dregs of Frosted Flakes and the coffee cup begs to be refilled, there’s still no response from Higher, an oddity as they almost always replied back within minutes when they weren’t working. Taeil doesn’t know what to do with his fingers, since lately they would be typing out messages to Higher between piano keys sinking down into the board. The thought of the piano alone doesn’t tempt him like it should, and Taeil passes the day fretting about, taking to cleaning his apartment and caring for all his instruments in lieu of the old habit of drawing lines in his skin with his nails.

/

Sicheng was late. Very late. He woke up with his arm acting up, wincing at the taunt muscles as he shoved his legs into his work pants. Nothing mattered besides getting to work on time, the wrath of his boss on his mind when he slammed the door to his apartment shut and rushed out to the bus stop.

The café was barely opening as Sicheng sprinted in tying his apron on, his boss only smacking his chest with a rolled up newspaper in greeting. Sicheng spent morning to late noon dashing about serving customers, the tray always perched precariously on his shoulders, his left arm screaming in protest when he would switch the tray over to that side. It’s when his break comes around that he pats his back pocket for his phone, his front pocket for his keys, and sighs angrily at their absence. Sicheng didn’t even get to tell Spring Moon good morning and now he couldn’t message him during his break and it left his skin crawling. There was nothing to calm his nerves today, usually soothed by Spring Moon’s words, and it had his hands rubbing over each other uneasily.

Idle minutes between customers were spent tapping his foot anxiously and when his shift was over, he was clocking out before any of his coworkers could bid him a farewell. The bus home makes multiple stops, the same amount it always does, but seeming so much more drawn out, and Sicheng has to bite his lower lip to keep from yelling out in exasperation. Once back at the complex, he dashes up the stairs two at a time, too antsy to wait on elevators on the edge of breaking down. Cursing at himself for picking an apartment on one of the top levels, Sicheng enters his living room out of breath, glancing about to see everything was more or less in the same state he left it in.

He takes a minute to compose himself before jogging to his bedroom, snatching up his phone before collapsing on the bed. There’s the usual text from Kun, an old friend he met his first year of college and one of the rare persons who kept in touch with Sicheng, and then three emails from Spring Moon. A cheery good morning, a message asking if he was okay, and the most recent one wondering if they should call the police, but how they wouldn’t even know where or who to direct them to, so they send a meme of SpongeBob sitting in a booth staring into his coffee with his hands clasped together. Sicheng lets out a snort before hurriedly typing, touched Spring Moon would even be vaguely concerned about his well-being.

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                _Higher:_

_I was rushing this morning because I overslept, forgot my phone, and I didn’t even bother locking my door either. Not my brightest moment._

 

_Spring Moon:_

_Oh my god_

_You’re lucky no one broke in_

_I will literally remind you every morning if that’s what it takes for you to not forget your phone and keys again._

_I don’t want to suffer from premature greying before the age of 30._

_Higher:_

_AH NO_

_It’s okay I promise, your hair is in safe hands._

_[picture attachment]_

It’s a sticky note on a door that only says PHONE AND KEYS, the letters gone over with a pen multiple times so they are bolded.

 

_Spring Moon:_

_My hair thanks you._

 

-

 

A multitude of songs shared and constructed over the years. Only one possessed the makings of recording in a professional studio, the one from the very beginning who was constantly in the back of Taeil’s mind. Now he brings it to the forefront to study, evaluate and tear apart all the imperfections. Except the only scratch on the exterior was its need for lyrics.  

But alas, words evaded him to no end. He pushes away from his useless notebooks filled only with blank pages and unspoken messages and makes for the door, leaving with nothing but keys to his apartment.

When Taeil came up empty, inspiration would appear on lone walks through the city, brushing past people of no importance. The intent is to find the spark needed for words and notes to appear in front of him from anywhere, whatever catches his attention. Zoning out then coming back to wherever his feet carried him is the route Taeil takes most of the time, kind of unorthodox, but he finds it works the best.

His thoughts wander to Higher as they usually do when Taeil wants a breath of clarity. With Higher, he knew where he stood, he knew his feelings. It was the matter of what to do about such things that pestered him relentlessly. Higher had somehow become a constant in Taeil’s life, an unexpected turn of events he was grateful for. There was no need to escape his wants and desires when he could escape within Higher and their laughter that slipped into their clips every now and then, a high-pitched sound responsible for the curling of his toes.

The sudden screaming of children is what brings his eyes up from the path he walked, a playground to his right teeming with kids running around chasing each other. For blocking out the sun, there’s black tarp with stars hanging over the set, a painting of the night sky amidst the dazzling blue of a bright day. The children rush to climb upwards on the jungle gym, making motions to grab at the stars. A search for more, a want to go higher.

That’s when it clicks.

 

-

 

_Spring Moon:_

_Full song with lyrics._

_[video attachment]_

 

_“Where else is there to venture_

_When I’ve walked every inch of this earth_

_Barren and ugly, it all looks the same._

_Show me something different, I’m dying for a glimpse_

_Of colorful fronds, dizzying on the way down._

_Bright light so blinding, but_

_Please, I just wanna go higher.”_

 

Sicheng stares at the lyrics as a voice of honey melts into his being, sweet and steady, knowing what course it was to take. The lyrics were only a supplement to the tune, necessary to complete an almost unparalleled piece no longer missing something. He doesn’t want to dwell too much on it, but it almost seems obvious and Sicheng wasn’t obtuse.

                                                                                                                                                                                                _Higher:_

_Wow, I’m practically speechless._

_What’s the title?_

_Spring Moon:_

_Fall sun._

-

 

_Three years_

 

Kun invites Sicheng to a convention in Seoul that weekend, a simple brochure containing few words (“Musicians of various backgrounds _must_ come for a fascinating experience!”) and mainly pictures of instruments and studio set ups. Childlike, as if this was someone’s first attempt at graphic design. But the fluorescent green of _Seoul_ sprawled along the top is the eyecatcher on the plain tiny piece of paper.

Seoul is the home of Spring Moon. Somewhere in the bustling city lies Spring Moon with their Yamaha keyboard and silver ring, an enigma waiting for Sicheng’s cold fingers to poke and prod at.

Sicheng takes the first flight out of Wenzhou the next morning, thrumming with nervous energy.  So nervous that he’s bent over the toilet for half the flight, his hopes and wants swirling down the bowl.

Kun meets him outside the airport, babbling about anything and everything the entire way back to his suite. Sicheng looks over from time to time to scan Kun’s face, full of the same liveliness from college. Some people never change, and it was the type of consistency missing from his life.

He didn’t want to stand out, but Kun insisted on a pinstripe suit instead of the plain black one Sicheng had intended to wear, the fitted high waist pants and vertical lines forming the illusion of long legs seeming to stretch out for days. His eyes are pleading with Kun as he finishes getting ready, but he just pats Sicheng’s butt on the way out, and all Sicheng can do is sigh and follow him.

The convention is held at a small hall, nothing too fancy that overwhelms the senses, but flashy enough to know this was a formal event. A quartet sits in a corner, sounds of Brahm’s floating over to where Sicheng stands, while a DJ booth sits in another blasting raw EDM music, the quartet shooting annoyed looks every so often in that direction.

It’s not long before a tall man comes up behind Kun as they are talking, arms encircling around him and chin placed on his shoulders. Sicheng raises his eyebrows when Kun brings up his hand to pat the man’s cheek, not even sparing him a glance.

“This is Youngho, my boyfriend who doesn’t know how to announce his presence.” The hand still on his cheek lightly pats Youngho who smiles. “And Youngho, you’ve heard me talk about Sicheng. He’s the producer.”

Youngho’s eyes light up in recognition. “Kun never shuts up about you-“ Another pat, a little harder than the last. “Hey! It’s true! I feel like I know so much about your music, and I’ve never even heard it. More like I’m not _allowed_ to since Kun likes to keep your alias under wraps.”

All these years Kun kept his promise and Sicheng can’t help but let a small grin slip out. “If I’m feeling up to it, maybe I’ll show you myself one day.” Youngho shouts out in glee, jostling Kun as he jumps up and down. He then stops, remembering where he was, and pulls on the ends of his suit nonchalantly to straighten out the creases he made.

“I have a friend who’s been looking for a producer for some time now, and I’ve been wanting to introduce you guys ever since Kun first mentioned you. He’s here tonight, if you’d like to follow me?” Youngho’s eyes are almost pleading. Sicheng can’t find it in himself to decline, so he nods and is suddenly being pulled through the throngs of people, Kun yelling in the background to bring back his friend in one piece.

They aren’t wandering for long, soon finding the man Youngho was looking for, fire red hair like a lighthouse shining the way back to shore for a boat out at sea. He turns at Youngho’s call, and the air gets caught in Sicheng’s throat.

“Sicheng, Taeil. Taeil, Sicheng. Both of you are fine, young people. You two would work well together.”

Youngho was a genial man of many words, but not enough to blot out the immediate cloying attraction, leaving in a hurry after giving them both a once over, not oblivious to the charged atmosphere.

Shy smiles and hair tucked behind the ear. Taeil holds out his hand and Sicheng grabs for a shake, warm and calloused palm meeting his own torn up hand. They grasp on for what is deemed longer than necessary, but neither seem to mind until they let go, feeling strangely empty without the pressure.

“So you’re Sicheng.”

Sicheng tilts his head in question. “You know me?”

“Youngho might’ve said something in passing.” The left side of Taeil’s mouth quirks up. “He knows I’ve been trying to make new music for awhile already. You’re a producer, correct?”

“Oh, yeah… I work with a group of people- not really like a label, but we do collaborations with artists whenever the opportunity arises.”  

Taeil leans in at that, gazing up at him with mirth in his eyes “Here’s an opportunity for you. Collab with me.”

The confidence of the statement, a certainty that Sicheng will agree to the proposition, takes him aback. He doesn’t know anything about Taeil, what he does and who he is, but Sicheng feels drawn in like he’s never felt before and finds himself nodding his head, Taeil’s smile widening as he straightens up.

From there, conversation flows easily, naturally. Music mainly, barely brushing into the emotions of what makes them human, but only because music is emotion, tied together in knots. A push and pull, almost as if Taeil was teasing him. It kept him on his toes, engaged and eager to respond with quips of his own. The glint in his eyes showing Taeil was enjoying the back and forths as much as Sicheng was.

Sicheng noticed Taeil talked with his hands, moving them at the smallest word that tugged a thought out of his mouth. And he begins to watch Taeil’s hands instead, the shiny silver nail polish capturing his attention. Something in the motions of his hands teased the back of Sicheng’s mind in familiarity, a sense of a missing element too. But before he can come to a conclusion, the time is cut short by Youngho coming back rather quickly and leading Taeil away from Sicheng, his brooding eyebrows furrowed.

Taeil knows the look crossing Youngho’s face.

“Taeil-“

“Don’t start, Youngho. Yes, the dude is handsome and seems smart, so what. You’re the one who brought him over to me anyways.”

Youngho purses his lips, exasperation evident in the creases of his face. “ _Don’t_ be an asshole. There was a purpose to the introduction, and now I’m just making sure there’s not a repeat incident of cherry parlour.”

Taeil holds back the wince at the name. Cherry parlour or conventionally known as Ten. Powerful and riveting. Eerie, yet entrancing. Cherry for his peculiar fondness of maraschino cherries despite not taking a liking to any other fruits. Parlour for only being around when he was in need of special and specific attention, always appearing at odd hours of the night, looking for a good fuck. Until it became mornings spent twisted in the sheets, sunlight spreading out on his face and glittering over long eyelashes.

The first since Taeyong. Taeil got lost in him, swimming through the teeming ocean waters, clear blue until the storm brewed strong and violent, tossing him around and battering his body in the undertide.

Ten destroyed Taeil.

And Taeil let him. It was so easy to absorb the empty praises and proclamations of love and pretend it sparked no interest in his heart. It was easy to be overpowered by Ten, pulled along by the hand to unknown bridges to dangle their feet over, water rushing by with leaves and the trash of other’s carelessness. Fast rides in stolen cars, Ten hanging out the window to scream at pedestrians while Taeil had his foot pressed on the gas, smiling as he barely missed hitting other cars by a hair’s breadth. Drinking until the alcohol ran through his veins like poison, picking fights at bars out of boredom, the first punch always exhilarating.

It wasn’t easy to stop seeing Ten. He knew what it was doing it him and yet he couldn’t stop being the terrible person he turned into, hurting random others and blowing off his small amount of friends for a messy handjob in a vacant McDonald’s bathroom. Not until Youngho witnessed one of the lasts fights, Taeil struggling against Youngho as he held him back and Ten stood silently regarding them with a bruise blossoming on his high cheekbone. Slammed against the wall and the rare sight of Youngho’s smoldering eyes sobered Taeil up quicker than anything else.

“Why are you letting him do this to you?”

That night, Youngho took Taeil back to his mess of an apartment, looking on in discontent before dumping Taeil on the couch and cleaning the entire place, Taeil watching him mutter to himself.

Before Youngho leaves, he pauses at the door, his hand on the doorknob and turns to Taeil to speak the only other words directed at him. “Taeyong was my best friend too, you know.” Their intent is set out for him, and Taeil can finally see.

The next time Taeil saw Ten, he was alone sitting in the old skatepark downtown, sipping from a brown paper bag. Ten didn’t cry when he spoke and Taeil didn’t expect him to, but the wound laid open for the air to touch and sting both. Taeil walked away, the discarded bottle rolling back and forth at the bottom of the bowl where Ten let it slide from his grip

“It’s not going to be like cherry parlour.” Taeil sounds so sure of himself even as the doubt creeps into his voice unannounced, and Youngho stares until he is satisfied.

“I trust you to know what you’re doing this time.” Nodding as Youngho departs to accompany someone else, Taeil turns in the direction of where Sicheng was last, eyes glancing about when he is met with an unoccupied space. He searches the whole night, hoping for a glimpse of the trim body in his pinstripe suit. Only to be disappointed when he hears from Kun, the CEO of the label company Taeil recently signed to, of Sicheng leaving early.

Moping about doesn’t seem like the wisest option, so he opts to the occasional mingling, the words from random people warbled and bouncing off his ears, Taeil’s cheeks straining from the effort of keeping up a smile. Taeil wonders what Sicheng is doing at this time, thoughts of Higher interspersed in there as well.

Sicheng is miles away in bed with another, a man by the name of Yuta, who’s huge unwaning smile captured his attention enough to leave the convention early. Only once does the thought of Spring Moon and Taeil cross his mind, two different yet eerily similar figures, but he lets them drift off as sloppy lips meet his own, giggling into the kiss.

He can have this one night to himself without the incessant need to overthink about unrequited sentiments for someone he’ll never meet.

 

-

 

Eyes peel open to the blaring of a random LoL sound effect Sicheng adopted over the last few days. He silences it, glancing at Yuta and his sleeping expression before clicking on the notification.

 

_Spring Moon:_

_I know lately you’d been saying you wanted to come to Seoul, so on the off chance you’re around soon._

_[address link]_

 

Sicheng has never moved faster a day in his unathletic life, scrambling out of bed and towards his discarded pants near the dresser. He’ll have to hurry to Kun’s for fresh clothes, but he hops into yesterday’s outfit, each jump bringing him closer to the door until his foot catches and he unceremoniously tumbles to the ground.  A loud thud echoes around the room, courtesy of his knee. Cursing, Sicheng grimaces and peeks up at Yuta, who thankfully seems to be a heavy sleeper.

With his jacket half on, he sneaks through the door, the only evidence of his presence being the indention his body left on Yuta’s bed.

 

-

 

A grinning face and red hair too brilliant for this time of day. “Hey, Sicheng! What are you doing here?”

Sicheng blinks up at him, squinting, and Taeil takes in Sicheng’s appearance, a little less put together than the night before, but stunning all the same. “I’m waiting here for someone.”

“Actually, I am too. Why don’t you come with me while we wait? I got something I’d like to show you.” Hands wrap around his wrist, pulling him towards the glass elevators, Seoul rushing past them as they go up and up. What awaits is a studio packed with recording equipment, drum sets and guitars among various other instruments. And-

“Kun?”

Sicheng and Kun are currently staring each other down in shock, Taeil peering inquisitively between the two. “He’s the CEO. I’m signed underneath his label.” Sicheng knew Kun was a part of a record company, but he didn’t know he was the one running the whole business.

Clearing his throat, Kun shakes himself out whatever dazed state he was in. “I’m glad both of you are here. Both of you _did_ work on this album. Taeil seems pretty proud of it if you ask me.”

A stunned hush falls over the room, and trepidation lounges in the quivering of Sicheng’s fingers. There lays a CD in plain sight, the front unadorned, but when Sicheng flips it over with Taeil looking over his shoulder in an equally disconcerting silence, the box almost slips out of his hands.

The third track among six. For three months waiting, and three years knowing. In tiny letters that most people wouldn’t even pay attention to, meaningless to everyone except Sicheng.

 

_Fall sun_. Lyrics by _Spring Moon_. Production by _Higher_.

Ice rushes through Sicheng’s veins, stopping his heart completely. Spring Moon. _His_ Spring Moon. Is Taeil from the Seoul Music Conference? The impalpable yet oddly electrifying man like no other, who left Sicheng reeling from how enthralled he was, guilt gnawing away at his stomach simultaneously.

How was Sicheng so dull to not notice Taeil embodied Spring Moon, the same movements in his fingers matching those in the shadowy videos. The absence of the ring blaringly obvious, but the hands Sicheng had grown to fawn over, wishing he could see those weary hands in person, were the same.

Then the rush of embarrassment and shame hits Sicheng hard, lurching him forward and away from Taeil. Because even if he writes the music he can never play it to perfection, and Taeil _knows_ that, the only one he ever allowed close enough to see it. His breathing slows to an adagio, and black seeps into the corners of his vision, blotting out the numb look overtaking Taeil’s face. Hands slide up and down his face, coming to thread through his hair.

He’s panicking, and he can barely hear the words slipping from Kun’s mouth. “Is everything alright?”

Sicheng only manages to whisper out, “I have to go,” before stumbling out of the studio. Taeil doesn’t say a word in exchange for quietly packing up his equipment lying about and walking out the other exit, Kun left to ponder what the hell happened.

 

-

 

Kun figured there would be only one place Sicheng would run off too, one he sought solace in during college as well. Elevators down to the practice room floor, full of mini production stations and chairs and stands for the instrumentalist.

“Sicheng, what’s going on?”

With his back to the door, Sicheng lowers the borrowed viola and bow. Emotions fly around like dirt in a thunderstorm. Too much and miserably afflicting the eyes, though Sicheng didn’t have the mindfulness to care about unnecessary casualties

Avoidance, something Sicheng rather excelled at, and divergence, but this time, not playing in his favor. Sicheng was tired of bottled in feelings, thrashing to escape the cage of his mind.

"You know Bloch’s _Dirge_?” Sicheng laughs, more a release of air caught in his throat. “Of course you know, we played it together in college. Something so dragged out, mournful. It's an old piece that I learned back in high school. People tell me it's weird to have such a depressing piece be my favorite. But it brings me back to, in a sense, peaceful times. Soundproof practice rooms with see through windows for people to scrutinize at your fingers fly across your board as they pass, your bow raging on the bridge. Your shoulder aches from disuse and the instrument leaves a purplish mark on a usually clean slate.”

He pauses, and when Kun doesn’t respond, Sicheng figures he’s already gone this far, what’s a little more?

“Fermatas were… always my favorite notation, allowing for beats to be sustained for as long as instructed to do so. For the last couple years, it’s felt like a giant fermata perpetually hangs over my head, a sign my note is soon coming to an end.”

Kun’s stance changes, shifting more into view. “That’s not true.”

"Why wouldn’t it be? I'm just another failed musician who had a dream of playing for the rest of their lives and I can't even do something as simple as hold up my instrument without the upper left side of my body wanting to give out. I'm nothing without my viola, and they are nothing without me. I'm just a person with beats and pitches crawling underneath my fingertips and they are just a piece of wood with sound waves entrapped within its body, never to see the day of light, swirling around other’s ears.”

“I’m stuck producing, and even though I love it, nothing compares to using my instruments. My own personal touch to the music. It was never enough and yet it was always too much."

Kun was hesitant to ask, but the words slipped out anyways. "What about now?"

The look of reverie slips out of Sicheng’s eyes and is replaced with emptiness. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, but Kun saw the slightest of light get snuffed out and all that was left was hollow voids waiting for anything to fill them afresh. Sicheng turns his back, bringing out a clothed rosin, raising his bow to softly meet the rosin. How could a view be so tender when the creator was so rigid, stiff.

"Don't you have a company to go run?" That was his not-so-subtle cue that Kun had overstepped an unforeseen boundary and needed to leave. So he left wordlessly, slipping Taeil’s album on the piano near the door in the hopes Sicheng would eventually see it. Except he only had eyes for the black notes floating off the page in front of him and the searing pain ripping through his arm to remind him of what could have been.

 

-

 

The staticky stillness hung overbearingly in Sicheng’s room. Months have passed and he’s back in his hometown, back to his apartment overrun with ghosts who like to glide their fingers over Sicheng’s shoulders, chillingly welcome.

Taeil, Spring Moon, hasn’t emailed him since that day.

Not like Sicheng tried emailing him either. Any time he got close to opening up a new draft, he’d lock his phone and stand out on his balcony in only boxers, goosebumps automatically making themselves known on his skin as the cold knocked some sense back into his drifting brain.

What was there to be so afraid of?

Expectations unable to be met. On both ends. Taeil could be someone unlike how he’d imagine, not the amusing pen pal shrouded in mystery he’d come to love. Sicheng could be incapable of giving Taeil everything he wanted, needed. There was more, perhaps matters only present in Sicheng’s mind, but he couldn’t dislodge them.

Fear always had a place next to him. From the day his mother left him to fend for himself when he turned thirteen to the first shooting electricity running through his nerves, his viola clattering to the ground and the bridge snapping off.

But nothing was perfect and Sicheng learned to deal with it. Their situation shouldn’t be any different. Yet, was it really Sicheng’s place to pull at Taeil’s being until he crumbled underneath his fingertips?

He holds Taeil’s album in his hands, thumb brushing against the small letters of _Spring Moon_. It had been sitting on his nightstand untouched for the past few months, tauntingly, but now Sicheng can physically hold onto a piece of Taeil and not just suffice by rereading the thousands of emails over and over again. The album brings everything into place, his will cemented. A decision to be made, but one that wasn’t up to him. It seems like his entire life was just full of waiting.

_Fuck._

 

-

 

A draft sits in Taeil’s email inbox, yearning to be sent to Higher. Sicheng. Yet Taeil can’t bring himself to do it, uncertainty holding him back by the ears.

Contemplation was the real killer of humans, slowly drowning out all other senses. Suffocation near and dear, waiting around the corner for the right moment to strike. Habitual in its punctuality, mundane in its frequency.

Taeil was sick of it, the pounding thoughts nauseating. He knows Sicheng wouldn’t taste like bitter pills or artificial cherries, but rather a headiness only Sicheng carried about him, warm and rich like the swirling wood of his viola.

Hitting send with the strength of a thousand lotus, Taeil is finally able to breach the darkening water and breathe in the sun once again.

 

-

 

The ping of an email coming in. The first in months. Sicheng rises from the depths of his bed where he laid unmoving, slowly grabbing his phone off the bedside table.

 

_Spring Moon:_

_The offer from before still stands. I’ll be in New York City this week._

 

And Sicheng just smiles.

 

-

 

Flying isn’t as bad the second time. Sicheng doesn’t need to clutch on the armrest or feel the need to vomit into his seatmate’s lap. There’s only a fluttering, starting from the pit of his stomach and crawling upward until it’s settled in his heart like it’s home.

It’s not until Sicheng steps back on land does he realize. He’s in another country, one where he doesn’t speak the language save for a few mismatched words. Going to Korea and communicating with Taeil hadn’t been a problem because he had taken Korean language classes in high school and knew other friends who spoke it. But English was a whole other can of worms, and they were wriggling in his mouth. No one to ask where he’s at, what to look for.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, but Sicheng figures it doesn’t matter at this point. His feet and peculiar clairvoyance would usher him in whatever direction he needed to be. The unease that usually follows like a pale ghost, an attachment to the living, is no longer there. Sicheng couldn’t go much higher than this.

 

 

A sensation grows in Taeil’s chest, encasing him in a strange amount of confidence. He doesn’t even know if Sicheng will show up, but it’s still telling him _go, go, go_ , and he’s running through the crowded streets of New York, looking for any sign of Sicheng. Glancing in through shop windows, examining every person he passes for the telltale elegance forever gracing Sicheng’s features. His hope is slowly dwindling, but he keeps going, trusting whatever unnatural force to guide Taeil to where he needs to be.

He comes to a stop at a four-way intersection with stalled cars and bustling people in a hurry to arrive at their destination. Taeil is turning and turning his head every which way, waiting to cross along with tens of others.

Until he sees.

There at the corner of the street directly across from where Taeil currently stands. Face turned in the opposite direction, sharp jawline and the slope of his nose and connecting cupid’s bow on full display for Taeil to admire. Before he can call out Sicheng’s name, he abruptly turns, feeling the pressure of eyes on him, and his mouth slightly opens in surprise.

For the first time in years, a time preceding even Taeyong, tears prickle at the corner of his eyes at the sight of Sicheng wrapped in his soft coat, sparkling eyes wide and cheeks flush from the overbearing cold. Taeil doesn’t mind winter so much anymore; his vision is blurred with images of blossoming daisies and radiant sunlight glowing over the crown of Sicheng’s head.

Eyes never leave the other, almost afraid of it being a figment of their imagination, a hallucination. They walk towards each other, approaching slowly, people rushing by and horns blaring, but Taeil couldn’t care less. In that moment, Taeil felt as if the elusive puzzle piece was stuttering right in front of him, waiting to be grasped onto. And this time, he was going to meet its imperfect edges with his own.

**Author's Note:**

> hhh I forgot to mention wo xi huan ni means I like you
> 
> also this was the meme taeil sent [(x)](https://78.media.tumblr.com/e5c8dfe3db2e67d15f99632446185edd/tumblr_inline_mqtru334zg1qz4rgp.gif)
> 
>  
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/lunitataeil)   
>  [cc](https://curiouscat.me/blueaces)


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